


We Might Not Make it Home Tonight

by stardropdream



Category: Clover (Manga)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He buys her a man's drink, and she moves like liquid motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Might Not Make it Home Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 23, 2010.
> 
> Holiday fic for rammsteiner, and her request was: "Kazuhiko/Oruha, how they met." This fic ended up being more along the lines of what they DID when they met.

  
  
He sets a glass of alcohol beside her. She looks up, eyes glass bottle green, lines of light tracing from the pupil outward.   
  
“I heard you sing,” he says as greeting.   
  
Her eyes are hooded now, looking at the glass, set on the table still clenched in his hand. Her expression does not change but there is a twitch—a little twitch at the corner of her mouth before it blossoms into a wide smile.   
  
“You’ve brought me a man’s drink,” she says, palms the sweating glass with a smile that does not denote cruelty, but amusement.   
  
Kazuhiko frowns. She only laughs more at it, and holds up her hand to him. He takes it, stoops to brush his mouth over her knuckles before he can stop himself and remember proper manners.   
  
“And what did you think of my singing?”   
  
“I don’t listen to a lot of singers,” he says as way of disclaimer. “You seemed good.”  
  
She laughs harder, and picks up the drink he’d brought her, taking a little sip. “You do not speak to women much, do you?”  
  
“Huh?” he asks, and feels like he is a little boy again under her intense green gaze.  
  
“When a woman asks you what you think about something about her, you tell her it is the greatest you’ve ever experienced. I am the best singer you’ve ever heard. I have the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen. I have the most enchanting smile.” She smiles. “Try it.”  
  
“Your singing was the most beautiful I’ve ever heard,” he says.  
  
“Like that,” she says, and laughs. “My name is Oruha.”   
  
“I know. You introduced yourself on stage.”   
  
“But now I am off stage,” she says, “and my name is still Oruha.”   
  
She finishes the drink, sets it down on the table, traces her fingertips over the beads of condensation left behind. “And what is it about this place that brings a man like you inside, and compels you to stay?”   
  
Kazuhiko doesn’t have an immediate answer, so he only smiles. There is something shameless in the way Oruha moves when she stands up from her chair and slide sup to his side, her hand familiar against his chest, yet foreign.   
  
“I wonder what the answer might be,” she says, “And what is your name?”   
  
“Kazuhiko.”  
  
“I’ll remember that,” she says with a quirking smile to her lips. She steps forward. “What did you mean by buying me a drink?”  
  
He doesn’t answer.   
  
But she seems to know, because she only smiles and takes another step towards him. He thinks she is very beautiful. No, he knows she is very beautiful. She says, “I think I can guess.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The lines of light from the streetlamps, from the artificial stars in the sky are bright gold, spinning like lace across the ceiling, creating patterns.   
  
It isn’t love, no way is this love—but that does not mean he does not moan, does not stare up at her as she curls over him. Her movement is shameless again, fervent and disobeying, worshipful as she moves. His hands push up against her chest, curls around the ribs. Not to push away, but for some kind of resistance—resistance on resistance. This is the only way he knows—resistance, disobedience, pulling and pushing and fighting to escape. Here he wishes to keep her, but he does not know what to do with his hands. Oruha’s hips move, liquid sun, the lacing light patterns curling along her hipbones and across her naval, a gentle pattern he wishes to memorize.   
  
Her hands are cool but he feels warm when she touches him. All the spots she touches are right, and something blooms across her face that is mirrored in his chest. Where she touches, the contact is a movement, a rhythm, a thrust—something that is slow and sweet with time, but frenzied with the pace. She smiles down at Kazuhiko, and the look in her wild, glowing eyes tells him that there is more than the slight incitement of embarrassment he feels, more than the snap of her hips, the curve of her back, the way she pulls her hair up and arches her back in practiced ease. Her breasts are heavy in his hands, her stomach flat, her lips parted to make just the right kind of gasp that he will never forget. The colors in their eyes meet on straight, separated only from the lace of midnight light.   
  
Kazuhiko bites down on his lip, tries to keep quiet. Where she is all sound—pants, gasps, moans—he is silence, his hands move, sluggishly, unsure how to touch a woman but wanting to do so, wanting to trace her curves, her skin in feather-light touches. But Oruha does not allow for his silence, and pushes down harder and deeper and snaps her hips in a rolling crescendo. The sound comes up white in Kazuhiko’s throat, a tiny note of music that she swallows with a gentle response, her body and movements cool and steady, igniting fire in its wake.   
  
He comes first, fasted and feeling the electric buzz snap up into his veins. He does not know how to cope with it. His hands are heavy on her, and she just rolls and drifts in fluid motion, her mouth parted, lipstick slightly smeared and knowing it is smeared on his mouth in turn. Her eyelashes flutter and she does not stop moving even as white and pink flushes through his senses, and he grips her hard, tries to bite back his sounds but knows he cannot, and the response is an unrestrained gasp that makes Oruha’s smile widen. She kisses him with criminal force, rocking her hips, feral. Her nails are in his skin, her teeth against his lip. Her body engulfs him, and he is drowning.   
  
When she comes, she does not make a sound, just the shift and hitch of her breath. She shudders and writhes, and her eyes flicker open and their eyes lock. The lines of light are curled into her eyes again, and he is mesmerized by it. He hates to think that she will be gone when he awakes in the morning.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When he does wake, the room smells of an absent woman and her perfume. But there is a phone number curled across his palm. He writes it down before it fades away, too.


End file.
